Great Minds
by The Moss Stomper
Summary: What makes a Shinra executive tick?
1. Heidegger

**A/N**: Once again, I have succumbed to the urge to write a fic with _extremely_ niche appeal. Go me. X)

This will be a series of vignettes on the executives of Shinra. How do they think? What makes them tick? Each chapter will be titled with their name, so you can easily find the one(s) who interest you the most.

If you do read these, it would make my day if you decide to leave a comment. Please tell me I'm not the only one in the world who is curious about these characters!

* * *

**Heidegger**

_Heidegger always did his best thinking under pressure._

* * *

At his desk, Heidegger scowls at the report in front of him. Its very existence offends him. He hasn't read a single word.

A whole heap of reports sits to his left. A second, smaller stack is on his right, signed and ready to be filed. He hasn't read those either. If nobody is running around yelling about it, it has to be too trivial for him to bother reading.

It wasn't like this in the old days. Out on the front lines, where making a decision was to choose between life and death. The slightest hesitation meant sure defeat. Those days, each of those critical moments… Those had been his time to shine.

These days, though? Board meetings and emails are the biggest threats he has to face. The only thing still shining is the row of medals on his wall.

Heidegger signs his name with short, angry slashes and stabs his pen back into its holder. Every minute he spends chained to this desk is another brain cell gone to rot. He can feel them. Hojo would probably laugh at his theories. Or sneer, rather. That is what the man does. Sneer smugly at anyone who dares express an independent thought in his presence.

Well, what does a damned _scientist_ know about the real world? Hojo was born and bred to spend his days indoors, where his soft, pasty self remains safely out of harm's way. He doesn't understand men of the military. He certainly isn't stuck inside Heidegger's head, feeling his own vigor and determination leak away with every pencil-pushing day.

Heidegger huffs and pushes back, scraping his chair along the floor. He takes a moment to loosen his belt a notch, and as the pressure on his gut eases, his grimace melts away. His entire uniform is getting oddly tight again. One of these days he will go have another stern word with the dry-cleaners. Last time they claimed that it was impossible, that their cleaning processes were carefully monitored, that no one else has ever complained. One of them even dared to insinuate that the problem lay elsewhere, while looking pointedly at Heidegger's waist.

What did a bunch of launderers know, anyway? Bunch of liars, the lot of them, just dodging the bill for the new set of uniforms Heidegger had been forced to order to replace what they had suspiciously shrunk.

At the time, Heidegger even sent a memo to internal services about it. Nothing had changed, and now another uniform was bursting at the seams. Showed how much those idiots knew, too.

Heidegger pulls himself to his full height, ramrod straight, shoulders back. He marches over to the window, clasping his hands at the small of his back as he takes in the scenery. Far below, Midgar's streets stretch out like spokes of a wheel to the edge of the plate, where one of the city reactors stands tall and proud. He used to appreciate the view. Now, after staring down on it year after year, it seems so... lethargic. Like a stagnant pool, slowly going to rot.

Well! Nothing in this world lasts forever. Sooner or later trouble will arise again, and then these scientists and launderers and all the other fools will see the world for what it really is, and they all will come running to the only man in Midgar who knows how to keep it together in a crisis.

There will always be turmoil in the world. Always be those who seek to crush and subjugate, and those who are determined to stop them. All Heidegger has to do is wait.

Before long, it will be his time to shine again.


	2. Scarlet

**Scarlet**

_Scarlet always did her best thinking in solitude._

* * *

When Scarlet arrives, it has already gone dark. The sea breeze greets her as she steps out of the car, swaddling her in the refreshing scent of brine. Nothing but the distant hum of waves disturbs the silence. With a sigh of relief, she loosens the clasp that has kept her hair trapped all day and lets it fall to her shoulders.

She hears a faint clicking, rapidly growing louder. It spreads, approaching her from all directions; within seconds she's surrounded by a small army of spiderbots and submerged in the red light of their scans.

Scarlet smiles.

"Hello, darlings. Mommy's home."

One of them remains in scanning mode two seconds longer than the others, a barely noticeable flicker in its red eye. Scarlet frowns, running down a mental list of possible causes. Nothing alarming comes to mind, but she will have to run diagnostics on it nonetheless.

That can wait until morning. She had a vision during the long drive to the coast; a jolt of inspiration that might just solve the weight distribution issue with the Clod's beam cannon. Her fingers are itching for a pencil and compass.

As Scarlet strolls up the paved path to her seaside cabin, she runs her fingers through her hair, plucking out the remaining pins. As soon as she is through the front door, she kicks off her high heels, setting her weary feet free at last, and heads to the bedroom in the back.

Shinra has hounded her for weeks for an update. The old fool may have a head for business, but the finer points of technology are hopelessly lost on him. His wayward son isn't much better in that regard, but he has to be less set in his ways. And as rumor has it, she muses as she slips the straps of her dress over her shoulders, less likely to stare at her boobs. Useful as it is to have an easy distraction at her disposal, discussing matters eye to eye would make a pleasant change.

Or not. As long as men are too busy drooling over her physical assets, she doesn't have to listen to their condescending drivel, and snooty little Rufus Shinra mastered the art of condescension a long time ago. A few years in exile is unlikely to have cured that.

Scarlet steps out of the heap of red fabric that has pooled at her feet. She grabs the robe hanging on the door – soft, plush cotton, a treat on her skin after a day in a slinky satin dress – and slips it on.

The Shinra brat's time will come, she muses as she wanders into the kitchen, and sooner than his father wants to believe. There are already whispers around the office concerning his possible – no, _probable_ – return. Scarlet purses her lips in thought as she retrieves a wine glass from its shelf. Perhaps it is time to consider playing nice. If not to Rufus, then to others on the board. Heidegger, perhaps. Of all the executives, he is the only one who wholeheartedly supports and appreciates her work.

But office politics can wait. Scarlet has more enticing problems to solve tonight.

She decides on a Costan red, bold in hue and flavor. Glass in hand, she heads into the living room, where her drafting table is set up in front of the main window. During daytime, the view out over the sea is magnificent. Darkness obscures it now, but Scarlet leaves the drapes pulled back. The darkness doesn't bother her; not when the eyes of her robots twinkle like red stars in the night.

Scarlet pins a fresh sheet of graph paper to the table and takes a seat. Reeve would probably find her setup amusing. He seems like the sort who uses computers for everything. Writing shopping lists. Doodling. Keeping an up-to-date inventory of clean pairs of socks. Scarlet scoffs. Him and his little gadgets. He has a knack for engineering, but as long as he insists on playing with silly toys, he is useless to her.

Scarlet's designs are as far from toys as one can get. They are killing machines, efficient and powerful, brutal when needed. And her latest project will be her greatest triumph yet: ten armored tons of gleaming, unbridled destruction.

Smiling wickedly, Scarlet picks up her pencil and gets to work.


	3. Palmer

**Palmer**

_Palmer always did his best thinking in like-minded company._

* * *

With a grunt, Palmer sinks into his chair. From his throne at the head of the room, he surveys his kingdom. Empty desks, gathering dust. Long-forgotten equations scribbled onto yellowed paper pads, still propped up on their easels.

A deep, stifling silence.

There had been a time when the office filled with chatter and laughter and debate. It had been a place of learning and intellectual exchange, of wild ideas and conquering the impossible, and Palmer had _thrived._ He had brainstormed with the best minds Midgar had to offer, until the very air had buzzed with boundless creative energy. He had encouraged them, guided them, sparred with them – and had come out on top, more often than not.

The effects of it hadn't been confined to this room, or even to HQ as a whole. Palmer's space program had captured the imagination of every adult and child in Midgar – on the continent – even across the ocean. The invitations had flooded in to talk about the Shinra space program, _his_ program, on TV and radio. He had been a star, more brilliant than any of the ones that twinkled above their heads, the beacon of Shinra's radiant future in the great unknown. A household name, one they uttered with excited optimism.

Wutai changed it all. One by one, his brightest minds were siphoned off to the Weapons and Science Departments. For the greater good, they said. Palmer scoffs. What good has ever come out of weapons and war? What good could be _greater_ than exploring the stars?

But his old friend had not listened to him. After the fiasco in Rocket Town, even Palmer's own people stopped listening to him. He had sat in this room, at this very desk, smiling and wishing them well as they left him for brighter futures. With his eviscerated budget, there was nothing else he could offer them.

And here he still sits, like a dim, withered ghost pining for its lost life. All Palmer can do now is to grow fat and gray on the company's dime, before what little remains of the good old days is pried away from him. His old friend won't do that to him, oh no – but his son might. After all, Palmer isn't the only one growing fat and gray.

He swivels his chair, turning his back on the crippling silence. Two windows gape like black holes onto the night, on either side of the strip of wall that shields his desk from the sun. By the right window sits a telescope pointed skyward, waiting in vain for a curious eye to peek through its dust-covered lens.

Palmer coaxes his bulk out of the chair, joints creaking in protest. He waddles over to the window on the left and turns his face up to the sky. A persistent layer of sickly-gray clouds smothers it as far as his eye can see. It's the norm, these days. He hasn't seen the night sky in weeks.

Maybe it won't be all bad, to be driven out of this wretched place.

He has a comfortable sum tucked away for his retirement. He could buy a cottage up north, where the nights are long and the lights are sparse, and enjoy the company of the stars twinkling down at him. Meager comfort, compared to the lofty goals of his youth, but it would be infinitely better than the scavengers he has to put up with here.

But then his old friend will have to endure them alone.

_One day_, Palmer promises silently to the hidden sky. Until then, as long as he still has a department to his name, he will keep trying.


	4. Hojo

**Hojo**

_Hojo always did his best thinking outside the box._

* * *

Hojo clasps his hands behind his back and appraises the specimen strapped to the table. He concludes with a satisfied nod.

"Begin the trial."

His assistant steps up, syringe in hand. The specimen lolls his head her way as she sticks it into his arm, but whatever he tries to say is lost in mumbling.

Hojo shifts his attention to the screen above the specimen's head. The heart rate begins its expected climb, blood pressure follows suit. Excellent oxygen saturation.

"Continue with phase 2."

The assistant – she hasn't been around long enough for him to bother learning her name – picks up the second syringe from the tray behind her. This time the specimen's vitals jump more rapidly, but soon stabilize at an elevated level.

"All readings nominal," the assistant reports, needlessly. "The specimen is stable."

"Yes, I can see that. Introduce the stressor."

"Yes, Professor," she mutters.

Her cheeks have gone pink. How silly of her to be preoccupied with her own pride at a time like this.

The assistant flicks a switch on the display at her side, which comes to life with a quiet hum. A bundle of wires snake out from the back of it and connect to strategic points on the specimen's body. When she presses a button, his body arches off the table for precisely two seconds. Several monitors launch into a chorus of beeping, but by the time the assistant has finished scribbling into her clipboard, they have quieted.

"Double the voltage," Hojo orders. "Two seconds."

The specimen groans. Hojo cannot discern any words.

A second burst jolts the specimen's body. As the machines beep their warnings, a faint odor of ozone spreads through the lab.

Hojo pushes his glasses higher on his nose and peers at the digits on the screen. How curious. The difference between the two runs is barely noticeable.

"Five seconds."

The assistant blinks in surprise and checks her clipboard.

"Five seconds," Hojo snaps.

Her lips press into a line, but she makes the adjustment. Her finger hovers over the button for a moment before pushing down.

The acrid smell of ozone prickles Hojo's nostrils. The specimen writhes and groans, but his vitals remain stable.

A smile creeps onto Hojo's face. How delightfully unexpected. Such a resilient specimen may just be his opportunity to observe the synergy – or lack thereof – between high doses of standard Mako concentrate and his latest invention.

"Twenty CCs of solution S, inject intravenously."

When his order fails to elicit a reaction, Hojo turns his glare on his assistant. Her eyes retreat to the clipboard in her hands.

"Professor…" She swallows hard. "This isn't part of the protocol."

"Witless girl!" he hisses. "You expect scientific progress to wait while you rewrite your paltry protocols? Administer solution S!"

The assistant's bottom lip quivers pathetically.

"Yes, Professor."

She turns away and begins to prepare the injection. Too rigid of thought, Hojo muses, too tightly bound by expectations. He was right not to bother learning her name. She isn't cut out for applied science.

It is what they teach them in school these days, he supposes. Begin with a question. Turn it into a hypothesis. Put it to the test. Do not deviate from your course. Obey the laws of science.

Hojo's lip curls in a sneer. As if science gives a damn about their laws. While these shortsighted fools stare themselves blind at their narrow slice of reality, dozens of crucial discoveries are dancing by right under their noses.

The assistant turns, holding a filled syringe.

"Twenty CCs of solution S, ready for administration."

Her voice is cool again, her face impassive. Dull and narrow-minded though she has proven to be, she is not entirely without use.

"Proceed," Hojo commands. "Record everything."

He was always destined to discover great things. He will not, _cannot_ let himself be bound by the petty rules of the fearful and the small. Progress demands it.


End file.
